


Mrs. Hudson's Mistletoe

by ureshiiichigo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ureshiiichigo/pseuds/ureshiiichigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson places mistletoe in Sherlock and John's flat. Sherlock should have just left it alone - but leaving things alone isn't very interesting, is it?</p><p>Written for the 221b Advent Calendar. Happy holidays!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Hudson's Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful percygranger. :) Here's wishing you hugs and Christmas cookies.

“Why, exactly, are you hanging poisonous flora in the flat?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the sprig of greenery dangling above him with suspicion.

Mrs. Hudson simply laughed as she stretched up to smooth her thumbnail over the tape. “I just thought you two could use a bit of encouragement.”

John snorted from his armchair, looking up from his perusal of the morning paper for interesting murders. He tried to control his face, but the corner of his mouth was twitching up in a grin.

Sherlock glanced at John, frowning, before turning back to Mrs. Hudson. 

“Haven’t you ever seen mistletoe before, dear?” Mrs. Hudson was teetering precariously on her step stool as she fastened the plant to the ceiling with some tape and a bit of string. 

Sherlock waved one hand dismissively. “No one uses it as a murder weapon these days.”

John peered curiously at his flatmate. “Wait, you really don’t know...” He chuckled before turning back to his paper. “I bet Molly’d be happy to show you how it works.”

“Why would Molly...?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing. “Wait, is this some sort of romantic drivel?”

John rolled his eyes. "It's not drivel, Sherlock. Some people _like_ to be kissed under the mistletoe." 

Mrs. Hudson rubbed her hands together to wipe off imaginary dust, before climbing back down the stepladder. “John, will you be a dear and help me set up the tree?”

Mrs. Hudson was getting into the holiday spirit, putting Christmas decorations everywhere (“No use in keeping these in 221A, no one will see them!”). Whenever Sherlock complained, John would simply kick him in the shin. Because, after all, it made Mrs. Hudson happy, and John had always enjoyed Christmas. It was one of the few times of year that his family managed to get along for more than five minutes, and everyone was distracted from their usual squabbling by presents and roasted marshmallows and pumpkin pie and eggnog. John still had good memories of sitting on the floor with Harry at six in the morning, guessing each other’s presents from the size of the boxes, and waiting for their parents to wake up.

So Mrs. Hudson bustled about adding wreaths and bells and tinsel and fairy lights to various surfaces, Sherlock sulked on the sofa, and John helped her set up the plastic pine tree that she’d pulled out of storage.

When they were finally happy with the positioning of the faux tree - covered in tiny glass pipettes from Sherlock’s chemistry set, with the skull perched on top where the star should be - Mrs. Hudson walked over to where Sherlock was still lounging on the sofa.

“You get off of that sofa, young man. Christmas is no time for moping.” She leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. “And if you stay there, well, just see what you’ll be in danger of.”

“Must you end your sentence with a preposition?” Sherlock mumbled, swatting at Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. She gave him another kiss on the forehead and smiled merrily at John. “Well, that’s all the decorations for now, boys. I’d best get a head start on my Christmas baking!”

Sherlock just lay on the sofa, brow slightly furrowed and palms pressed together as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers brushing against pouted lips. John gave the tree one last appraising look before turning back to the sofa, and Sherlock sat up quickly, eyes narrowing. John raised an eyebrow before realising that Sherlock was glancing at the mistletoe above the sofa.

“Don’t think you can hog the entire sofa just because there’s mistletoe. You’re not going to scare me off.”

“Fine,” he said shortly, before jumping up and flouncing off to his room. Typical melodramatic Sherlock. John just sighed, settled onto the sofa, and turned on the telly.

* * *

The next morning, when John came into the kitchen to fix some tea, he noticed a fresh sprig of mistletoe hanging over the cooker. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had been doing more decorating.

John settled down on the sofa with a mug of Earl Grey and a plate of toast with strawberry jam, and flipped on the telly. Sherlock came out of his room and eyed John from the doorframe.

“Care to join me?” John asked, his mouth half-full of toast. Usually when he watched bad crime scene investigation dramas, Sherlock would rip apart the inaccuracies - John would outwardly complain, but he loved every minute of it. 

Sherlock glanced up at the mistletoe hanging over John’s head, grimaced, and stalked off to his bedroom.

The following day, John had just gotten back from Christmas shopping - buying something for Harry was always such a bother - and as he came up the stairs to 221B, he spotted more mistletoe hanging over the landing.

“Sherlock, was Mrs. Hudson in today?”

Sherlock’s reply drifted out from the kitchen. “Yes, she brought over some biscuits. Why?”

John just shook his head and sighed. He really needed to have a talk with her about how he and Sherlock were definitely _not_ a couple. Despite what everyone else kept saying.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he said when he entered the kitchen and started to fill the kettle, “stop avoiding me. I thought you enjoyed making fun of the crap telly I watch.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Sherlock sniffed, half-heartedly prodding at a Petri dish full of mould.

“What, then? The mistletoe?” John rolled his eyes. “You could, you know, ignore it. Or move it.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, then swirled back out to the sitting room, his bathrobe streaming behind him in a cascade of blue silk.

When John came out of the kitchen, he was vaguely amused to see that the sprig of mistletoe had been transplanted to hang above John’s armchair. “Is that your idea of punishment?”

Sherlock tilted his head and shot John a half-smile. “I imagine it’ll improve your chances of getting a kiss in the next few weeks.”

John rolled his eyes and flopped down on the sofa, holding out a second mug to Sherlock in offering. Sherlock ignored the mug but flopped onto the other end of the sofa with a soft whumpf, managing to sprawl over the entire thing, even going so far as to rest one foot in John’s lap. John tried to hide his grin, but Sherlock’s eyes were tracking his face, glittering with amusement.

“I should have kept the mistletoe where it was. Must have had a temporary brain aneurysm and forgotten how annoying you can be.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re a doctor. You should know that brain aneurysms aren’t temporary, nor do they tend to cause amnesia.”

John giggled and patted Sherlock’s ankle fondly. “You’re a genius. You should know it’s pointless to argue with me.”

Sherlock merely smirked before turning his attention back to the telly.

* * *

Two days later, John was sitting in his armchair reading the paper, when Sherlock received a text.

Sherlock examined the message for all of five seconds before leaping off of the sofa. "John! Lestrade needs us. Triple homicide, and no obvious connection between the victims!" He rushed over to the door and started pulling on his coat. "Coming?"

"Yes, yes, give me a bloody minute, would you?" John struggled to his feet and joined Sherlock on the landing as he started wrapping his scarf around his neck.

John glanced up, remembering the mistletoe that had been planted there by Mrs. Hudson. Still there. Sherlock followed John's gaze, and on a whim, John leaned over and planted a quick, closed-mouth kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Ready?" John grinned at Sherlock's startled expression before bounding down the stairs and hailing a cab.

* * *

They got back to the flat five hours later, after examining what Sherlock termed "an extremely tedious murder" (because of course it would be obvious that all three women had gone to the same hairdresser within the past five months).

John listened to Sherlock's stream of complaints up the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the kitchen as John put the kettle on to boil.

"Really, considering the unique striping pattern in the highlights, I’m amazed that they didn’t question her sooner... Hmmm."

John turned to look at his suddenly silent flatmate. Sherlock's gaze was calculating, his fingers pressed together in front of his mouth, eyebrows drawn together and the corners of his mouth flickering up in a faint smirk. He was looking straight at John, still standing at the counter in front of the cooker.

John turned around fully to face him, shoulders straightening automatically into parade rest. "Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock leaned towards John. John started to flinch backwards, when suddenly he registered the warm press of lips on his cheek. 

Sherlock withdrew, but the expression on his face was strangely blank. "Mistletoe, John."

John simply blinked in surprise, looking up at the sprig of mistletoe that he'd noticed a few days earlier. Sherlock whirled on the spot and strode out to the sitting room.

When John came out with two mugs of tea, Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, sporting his typical thinking pose with fingertips touching, tucked under his chin.

"What was that all about, anyway?" 

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes. "Quiet. Thinking." 

"Bloody git," John mumbled under his breath.

* * *

To say that John’s kiss in the hallway that morning had taken Sherlock off guard would be an understatement. Getting a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Hudson was fine. He could handle that. She’d long been allowed little intimate touches, hugs or kisses on the cheek and forehead.

But John?

It was one thing for fingers to brush on passed cups of tea, for a hand to flick away lint from the shoulder of a trench coat, for elbows to be tugged to get flatmates off the sofa and out the door to an interesting crime scene, for arms to press chests back into alleys to avoid being seen by an armed suspect.

It was quite another to be kissed.

It was quite another to kiss.

All through that (boring, obvious) case, Sherlock kept thinking about John. The warm pressure of lips on his cheek. The rasp of stubble against his chin. The smell of gunpowder, cheap cologne, and musk. He’d taken much longer to solve it than he should have - if he hadn’t kept being distracted by the sight of John’s smile from across the room, Sherlock was confident he could have wrapped up the case in an hour or two, tops.

But he couldn’t get it out of his head. They finally returned to the flat, high on the buzz of a case solved, John filling the kettle to make them tea - and all Sherlock could think of was John’s calloused fingers resting on the kettle, the wisp of hair at the nape of John’s neck, John’s tongue flicking out to wet his lips... What would those lips feel like against his? That tongue? 

The mistletoe was right there. Sherlock had an excuse. It was enough to make him pause in the middle of a thought, enough to make John turn and face him. So Sherlock leaned forward and brushed his lips against John’s cheek, felt the scratch of stubble against his mouth.

John had just stood there, apparently in shock, and Sherlock realised he had crossed a line he didn’t know was there, some invisible boundary between _friend_ and _something else_.

Now that line had been crossed, Sherlock wasn’t so sure he wanted to step back across it.

He would just have to make sure that John felt the same.

* * *

The three sprigs of mistletoe kept ending up in different locations around the flat.

John first noticed on Thursday, when he stepped out of the shower, only to find a sprig hanging above the bathroom mirror. He checked the kitchen, sitting room, and hallway. The mistletoe at their front door had disappeared.

On Saturday, the mistletoe in the kitchen had moved to just outside John's bedroom door.

On Sunday, John asked Sherlock about it over breakfast. Sherlock shuffled out of the bathroom, hair sticking to his head in wet clumps, and John set aside his toast and cleared his throat. "Moving the mistletoe out of your way, are you?" 

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes flickered to John's bedroom.

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

John just smiled to himself as he sipped his Earl Grey. Two could play that game.

* * *

On Tuesday, the mistletoe were hanging above Sherlock's microscope in the kitchen table, pinned to Sherlock's bedroom door, and strung up with the fairy lights at the sitting room window, where Sherlock would stand and play violin.

On Wednesday, they were nestled in the tea cupboard, above John's bed (and when had Sherlock been in John's bedroom?), and sitting on top of John's stack of James Bond DVDs.

On Thursday, they were on Sherlock's pillow, in the fridge next to Sherlock's bag of thumbs (which, lord knows why, Mrs. Hudson had adorned with a shiny gold bow), and tucked into Sherlock's coat pocket. Shame that John had to bin the cigarettes to make room.

On Friday, John couldn't find the mistletoe anywhere.

Sherlock dashed into the sitting room and John leapt up guiltily, mid-search. He hastily shoved the sofa cushions back and leaned against the coffee table.

"New case, John. Coming?" 

"Ah, fine. Be right there." 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the sofa and the corner of his mouth twitched. He raised one eyebrow at John, who studiously marched past him, gathered up his jacket, and pulled it on in a rush. “Shall we?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked and swirled towards the front door wordlessly.

* * *

On Saturday, John searched the kitchen and sitting room. No mistletoe. Maybe Sherlock had thrown it in the rubbish or something. John tried to push away the strange feeling of disappointment that settled in his stomach.

On Sunday, John searched through his bedroom and bathroom. And then, slightly embarrassed, he looked through Mrs. Hudson’s rubbish bins. Nothing. _Nothing._ Well, there was an empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide, the crusts of three mince pies, and a number of very mouldy oranges. But no mistletoe.

On Monday, when John got back from his shift at the surgery, Sherlock was gone. There was a note pinned to the fridge. _At the morgue, don’t wait up. Leftover Thai in the fridge next to the eyeballs._ Sherlock could be strangely considerate some days.

John opened up the takeaway box and sniffed. _Ech._ Not so considerate, then.

As John sat in his armchair, munching on toast and beans, the thought occurred to him that there was one place he hadn’t yet searched for the mistletoe.

Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was out. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? John snorted. As if Sherlock wouldn’t find out. He could probably read John’s whole evening off of the stains on his shirt.

_“Dull day at the surgery, with the possible exception of the hypochondriac who was convinced she had cancer, emphysema, and gout, all at the same time, and with none of the corresponding symptoms. You read my note and tried eating the Thai I left for you, but it had turned so you threw it out; I’d used all the jam in an experiment last week, so you ate beans and toast instead. You settled down at the telly to watch a Bond film, but then decided you wanted to find the mistletoe I’d hidden and so you went into my bedroom and disturbed my sock index. Well done. At least you weren’t looking for drugs this time.”_

But what if Sherlock _wanted_ John to find the mistletoe? After all, before this, he’d been putting the sprigs in places where John would find them.

Well, there was only one thing for it, then. John would have to look in Sherlock’s bedroom.

There were no traces of mistletoe under the bed, on the floor, or in the closet - nothing, at least, that John could see without rummaging through Sherlock’s belongings.

He opened the top drawer in the dresser next to Sherlock’s bed and grinned triumphantly when he saw the mistletoe.

Nestled in between a bottle of lube and a box of condoms.

Condoms. Why would Sherlock own condoms? He’d never taken anyone back to the flat, to John’s knowledge. Nor had he ever expressed interest in anyone, with the possible exception of Irene Adler.

The lube... well, even John couldn’t be that naive. Surely his flatmate had a use for that. After all, John had a bottle himself, for those long stretches without a girlfriend. And Sherlock - Sherlock must -

John suddenly pictured the image of Sherlock, lying stretched across the bed, pants down at his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned, long pale fingers curled in a fist at his lap, with his head thrown back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut and mouth open in a perfect O...

When John’s eyes fluttered back open, he was biting his lip, his face was hot, and his breathing laboured.

John slid the drawer closed and strode quickly out of Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, it had been over a week since John had last seen the mistletoe. He hadn’t attempted to find the other two sprigs, and he hadn’t tried to move the one he’d spotted in Sherlock’s drawer. In fact, he’d tried very hard not to think of it at all.

John glanced over at the pile of wrapped boxes gathered underneath Mrs. Hudson’s pine tree. There were a number of presents for all three of them. John was hoping Sherlock would open his present before Mrs. Hudson came over. He didn’t think he could deal with her cooing.

“Thinking of tomorrow?” Sherlock asked.

John glanced over at the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and feet crossed at the ankles casually. There was a faint smile on his face.

“Well, yeah. I suppose. It’s... Christmas.”

“Dreading seeing your sister?”

“No, no, that’s not it. Just...”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into John’s, and John suddenly couldn’t bear to maintain eye contact. He looked over at the pile on the floor. 

“Just what?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Nothing. See you tomorrow.” John turned to climb the stairs to his room. He could have sworn he heard a faint “Good night,” but when he turned to look, Sherlock was gone and his bedroom door was closed.

* * *

When John trudged down to the sitting room on Christmas morning, Sherlock was already there, sitting curled up on the sofa and typing something on John’s laptop.

“Morning,” Sherlock said, without looking up from the laptop screen.

“Morning. Eggs and toast for breakfast?”

Sherlock simply hummed a response that John interpreted as _Probably won’t eat it, but feel free to make me some._

When John returned from the kitchen with two plates, Sherlock was eyeing a box below the tree wrapped in red with a gold ribbon.

John leaned down and picked up the package. There was a tag on it that read, simply, _John_. It looked like Sherlock’s handwriting.

Sherlock moved closer, looming over John as he inspected the package. “Open it.”

“Yes, that’s what one generally does with presents,” John murmured, turning the package in his hands. He glanced up, and Sherlock was glaring at John, mouth twisted as though he’d just swallowed a mouthful of grapefruit juice.

John just smirked and started tearing off the wrapping. Inside was a small box - trust Sherlock to double and triple wrap his present - and John lifted the lid carefully.

Inside were the three sprigs of mistletoe.

John’s forehead crinkled. Why would Sherlock give him this?

When he looked up, Sherlock was staring at him. Sherlock’s grey eyes were sharp and his gaze intense.

 _What?_ John tried to say it out loud, but the word stuck in his throat.

Sherlock knelt down so his head was on level with John’s, and placed a kiss on his cheek. Then, very carefully, very deliberately, he pressed dry lips against John’s.

He pulled back, studying John with a serious expression. 

“Happy Christmas, John.”

And then he straightened, rose to his feet, and walked back to his room, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

John stared at the closed door to Sherlock’s room.

_What just happened?_

He glared down at the sprigs of mistletoe, still resting in the box in his lap.

Bloody mistletoe. This was all Mrs. Hudson’s fault.

_Mrs. Hudson._

She would know what to do.

John raised himself on wobbly knees and, still holding the box in one hand, set off for the stairs.

When he came to Mrs. Hudson’s door he knocked perhaps a bit louder than necessary.

Mrs. Hudson was still wearing a bathrobe when she opened the door, smiling. “Oh, John! Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you so early.”

“Well, I... it’s just... Right.” John took a deep breath and thrust the open box of mistletoe out to Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock gave me this and... and he...” John paused, licking his lips. “He ran off to his room. You wouldn’t... happen to know why?”

A look of concern flashed over Mrs. Hudson’s face before her lips pulled into a tight smile. “I’m sure he’ll come around. Care for a cuppa?”

“No, that’s fine. Well, maybe.” John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Actually, that sounds lovely, thanks. If it’s not too much bother.”

“Of course not. Come in.”

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock was quietly panicking.

John had not reacted as anticipated to Sherlock's gift of mistletoe. If John did, in fact, feel as Sherlock did, surely he would have responded to the kiss? That and the mistletoe were an obvious invitation. 

Weren’t they?

Admittedly, it had been a while since he had attempted anything resembling a relationship. Perhaps he had been too subtle. 

Sherlock sat up in bed, letting the duvet fall into a crumpled pile at his waist. Clearly, Sherlock had miscalculated John’s affection. He would need to come up with a Plan.

Sherlock closed his eyes and saw the image of John's face as he opened the box of mistletoe. Sherlock had been expecting the confusion, at least initially. But he hadn't expected the tinge of guilt and fear when he'd kissed John.

The whole thing was ridiculous. What he had with John was good, fantastic even, and it had been foolish to...

Plan. Yes. He needed to focus.

Well, obviously, the first choice would be to ignore the whole thing. John would come back, and Sherlock would carry on as normal.

If John were to question it - exceedingly likely, as John could be insatiably curious when Sherlock appeared to be acting out of character - he would simply deny the whole thing. It was a practical joke. It meant nothing. Sherlock just couldn't be arsed to get John a real present.

If John still pushed... Well.

Sherlock knew that, though John was often unobservant, he also wasn't blind. Even if John were the last to find out about Sherlock's affections, he would, eventually, find out.

Which meant that Sherlock would have to resort to The Talk.

He had been rehearsing The Talk for months now, ever since he had seen John coming out of the bathroom in just a towel.

It went something like this:

"John, I would like you to know that regardless of any physical reactions I may have, I still consider my body to be merely transport. I understand that you do not reciprocate, nor do I expect you to, and I would never dream of doing anything to sabotage our friendship. Within reason, of course. I'm not going to stop experimenting in the flat. And I still expect you to get the milk, and accompany me to crime scenes. But, for instance, I will not push you up against the wall and have my way with you."

It was at this point that Sherlock started to lose the thread of his thoughts.

If The Talk was insufficient to assuage John, Sherlock would simply have to resort to begging.

And if all else failed, well, there was always Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

When John finally checked his pocket, an hour after sitting down with Mrs. Hudson, he was surprised to pull out his mobile and see that he had nine missed text messages.

> _Where, exactly, did you go? SH_  
>  _John, stop ignoring me. SH_  
>  _I’ve been told that ignoring one’s flatmate is not in the Christmas spirit. SH_  
>  _Did you want to open your other presents, or not? SH_  
>  _Perhaps I shall use some of them in an experiment. SH_  
>  _That was a joke. SH_  
>  _John, say something. SH_  
>  _John. SH_  
>  _John, I'm sorry._

Jesus. If Sherlock was apologizing, he must be really desperate.

> _I'm with Mrs Hudson -jw_  
>  _Stop panicking -jw_
> 
> _I'm not panicking. SH_
> 
> _Right, of course not. -jw_
> 
> _What have you been discussing? SH_

John decided that was a conversation best conducted face-to-face. But if he didn’t respond, Sherlock might worry.

> _:)_

Right. A smiley face. He’d sent Sherlock a smiley face.

Sherlock would kill him.

> _I'll be up in fifteen -jw_

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, it's been lovely chatting with you, but it sounds like I'd better go back up before Sherlock blows a gasket." John started to rise, but Mrs. Hudson covered his hand with her own.

“I hope you can forgive my meddling.”

John grinned and turned his palm to face Mrs. Hudson’s, which he grasped and squeezed reassuringly. “What meddling?”

Mrs. Hudson pulled away, smiling.

* * *

“Hi.”

Sherlock nearly dropped the kettle. How had he missed John’s entrance? He was leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing Sherlock appraisingly, head tilted slightly to one side, the wisps of his bangs just long enough to brush against his forehead.

Neither of them said anything, the silence stretching uncomfortably, and finally Sherlock turned and started to pour the hot water into the two mugs sitting on the counter.

“I made tea earlier, but it cooled.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. So he simply picked up John’s mug and handed it to him, relishing the sensation of heat curled against his fingers.

“Thanks.” John took a sip, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

Well. Plan A seemed to be going fine so far.

“So are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

Ah. Time for Plan B then.

“I made tea. Unless I misinterpreted your text message,” and at this he fixed John with a glare, “you talked about emoticons with Mrs. Hudson. You’ll call your sister later - probably just after lunch, in the hopes that she won’t be drunk yet - fat chance of that - and join Mrs. Hudson for drinks before coming back to 221B and starting to cook roast lamb, only to give up and heat up the leftover takeaway we’ve had in the fridge since Sunday-”

“Sherlock.” John spoke the word with the authority of military command, but there was a small smile on his face and his eyes were crinkled up in mirth.

“Yes?”

“You know what I meant.”

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, affecting disdain.

“What’s been going on between us, I meant.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Ah.” 

John simply waited, head tilted at a ridiculous angle (and why would the angle of John’s head have anything to do with his sincerity?). He gazed at Sherlock expectantly, a slight smile on his face.

Sherlock was rapidly running out of Plans. “John, I, ah, I would like you to know that - that regardless of any physical reactions I may have, I still consider-”

But the rest of his speech was cut off by John’s mouth crushing against his own. John’s lips were warm and soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and Sherlock caught the lingering taste of tea biscuits and Irish Breakfast blend. 

After a few seconds, John pulled back, cheeks flushed and breathing hard. “Should - sorry. Should have mentioned the - this.” He pulled a sprig of mistletoe out of his jacket pocket. “It was - well, couldn’t break the rules, could I?”

Sherlock stared down at the sprig of green in John’s outstretched palm. Perhaps the mistletoe hadn’t been such a bad present after all.

“Since when have we ever followed the rules?” Sherlock pointed out.

John smiled. “Point.” He tossed the mistletoe over his shoulder. “Who needs rules?”

Sherlock smiled as John leaned forward once more. 

As Sherlock sunk his hands into John’s hair and sucked at his bottom lip, he made a mental note to buy Mrs. Hudson a nice, not-cerise scarf. 

Tomorrow.


End file.
